


Done in the Dark

by always_a_birthday_girl



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Communicating, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Romance, hunger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:42:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23612494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/always_a_birthday_girl/pseuds/always_a_birthday_girl
Summary: Struggling after the loss of his father, Tim Drake tries to keep his head down and live a normal life--at least until he sees the body drop from the roof of his high school.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Jason Todd
Comments: 51
Kudos: 295





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: this is a VAMPIRE story. Vampires drink BLOOD. And they happen to do so in semi-graphic detail in this work, so if that squicks you out, PLEASE hit that back button. All feeding is consensual . . . and there's a sentence I thought I'd never write.

Tim resumed his normal life on a Wednesday, seven months after the car crash that had taken his father's life and—miraculously, the doctors said—saved his.

He schelpped almost a semester's worth of makeup work to the school office before homeroom, still mildly salty about having to redo last year's assignments. He'd been tempted to cheat, but since he'd been stuck in bed anyway, he'd done the work. His physical therapist had been proud.

He wished _he_ felt more pride. Most of the adults in his life—from his state-appointed social worker to his teachers—seemed to think his survival was an accomplishment. He was lucky, he was blessed; he was universally congratulated on passing through the jaws of death and into this empty, broke, tired epilogue.

Wasn't it wonderful to trade the drab, antiseptic halls of the hospital in for the drab, sweat-stenched halls of high school? He shuffled through the crush of teenagers and tried not to think about how empty the house would be when the final bell rang.

At least his classmates seemed oblivious. These kids had been sophomores wrapped up in whatever it was that sixteen-year-olds cared about when Tim had slammed the family sedan into the side of a Whole Foods after skidding over a patch of black ice. They didn't pretend to give a fuck about it, and after being fussed over for months, he welcomed the invisibility.

Homeroom was brief. They were reading _Catcher in the Rye_ in English. Tim had already read it twice, along with most of the other books on the curriculum—not because he was big on lit, but because he'd had a lot of time on his hands and happened to be terrified of the things his mind did when it wasn't occupied. He'd read the back of a cereal box if it kept him from remembering the wet, sharp sound of shattered glass shredding Dad's flesh.

He was lost at lunch. He'd somehow made it through six years of school without making friends with a single younger classmate. There weren't any empty tables to sit at, so he picked a group at random and kept to himself, an island at the far end of the table. He left early to collect his backpack under the pretense of being prepared for class.

That was his mistake. There were two guys arguing in front of his locker.

"—what your problem is, Jay?" one of them was saying as Tim approached. In his blue button-up and relaxed fit jeans, he looked like a politician's kid desperately pretending to be normal. "Your head's so far up your ass sometime, it's a wonder you can breathe. I was _trying_ to do something nice."

The other guy's face tightened. There was a notch in his jaw, like it had been broken once, and it become more prominent as the button-up kid shoved a paper bag against his chest.

"Next time, I'll just let you starve."

Notched Jaw slammed the side of his fist into Tim's locker, hard enough to leave a dent, of course. His shoulders rolled under his leather jacket. "I _am_ fucking starving!"

Tim was no expert on conflict, but the white fury in the guy's tone awakened a primal instinct in his bones— _stay away_ , it warned. _You'll regret going closer_.

The button-up guy pivoted, hands in his pockets as he brushed by Tim without sparing him a glance. His nonchalant expression suggested this wasn't the first time he'd dealt with this temper, which was dandy for him . . . but Tim still needed to get into his locker. He looked back to the big, angry guy standing in his way, and wondered if it would be wiser to come back later.

Then the guy's glacial eyes fixed on him. His nose was crooked, Tim noticed, which did nothing to make him appear more approachable. Then realization dawned over his craggy face, melting his features into something infinitely more friendly.

"Hey. If I'm in the way, just tell me." He stepped aside, motioning for Tim to come closer. "I don't bite." His lips twisted in a wry smile.

Tim resented the shake in his fingers as he worked on the combination lock. He shouldn't be scared, not with this damn body. But that same body didn't seem to have gotten the message. "R-rough day, huh?"

He cringed at his own attempt at small talk. In a past life, he was doubtless one of those rabbits that got confused enough to run directly _at_ the wolf hunting them. If he were smarter, he'd grab his shit and get out of here as soon as possible.

"My brother's a dick. Ha." The guy let out a stilted, fake laugh. "It's funny because his name actually _is_ Dick."

Tim didn't dare make eye contact. His locker door clicked open, and he gratefully dove into it, pretending there was something at the very back that he desperately needed to retrieve. He hoped the other guy would be gone when he emerged, but he had no such luck.

"Yeah, okay, bad joke. But you're that kid." The guy was leaning on the open door like they were old friends. The sardonic twist of his words made it sound like he was mocking even when he appeared to be offering a sincere statement. "The one in the crash."

Tim grabbed a textbook for a class he didn't have until Friday, and promptly dropped it. "I don't want to talk about that."

The guy crouched down to pick up the book for him, handing it up without straightening. Tim accepted it, feeling more at ease when he wasn't being loomed over.

"Fair, fair. I wouldn't, either." The bag he'd been given dangled from one hand; he glanced down at it and his expression became hard again. Without saying another word, he stood and stalked away, his shoulders rigid and the muscles in his neck taught enough to be defined.

Tim had half a mind to call after him, but that was nuts. There was no point in starting something like that.

Pre-Calculus was an exercise in patience. He wished he'd failed to understand the basic concepts the first time around, that he was forced to tackle the subject with the gravity and concentration of a scientist concocting a life-saving, but volatile, formula in the middle of a battlefield. With nothing to keep his mind occupied, he was left wandering through a minefield.

He doodled, he made lists, he eyed the clock like an enemy, and he gazed out the window—anything to stave off the possibility of a flashback. His therapist had advised against using avoidance as a coping mechanism, but he didn't have to see her anymore, so fuck that. He'd avoid the shit out of things he didn't want to think about.

The rest of the class _did_ find the subject difficult, so Tim happened to be the only one looking out the window when the body flew past.

His blood ran cold. There was no way he'd seen that right.

He inched forward, peering out the window. Sure enough, there was a body spread-eagled on the grass below. His heart rose in his throat, and he let out a strangled cry.

"Mr. Drake?" the teacher asked.

"Out the—there's a—holy shit!" Tim sprang to his feet, mindlessly dashing for the door. "Someone call 911!"

The others were just moving to the window as he burst out of the classroom. He didn't know what he was thinking, gripped only by the human need to _see_ , to witness, to seize on the chance to _do_ something other than just gawk. He didn't own a cell phone. He had no first aid training. He barreled down the closest stairwell anyway, hyper-aware of his sneakers slapping against the concrete.

He hit the back door with a loud _thunk_ , hurtling out onto the grass of the back lawn. Other than hosting field day and the career fair, this part of the school was rarely used and typically deserted. If he hadn't been looking, it was possible no one would have noticed the body.

Tim hurled himself to his knees next to the bulky figure, ignoring the chafe of his jeans against his skin as he struggled to turn the body over. His hands were trembling again, his heart pounding from both the run and the fear that he'd just witnessed a suicide.

He finally got the guy on his back, breath catching when he realized it was the same guy who'd been blocking his locker earlier.

Tim remembered, too late, that you weren't supposed to move someone with a possible spinal injury, but the guy had jumped from—where? Tim looked up. The side of the school was smooth, windows locked for safety. The only possible exit point was the roof.

"Fuck," Tim breathed, and the guy opened his eyes. They were hazy, blue irises darker than before, pupils dilated.

The guy raised one trembling hand. " . . . hungry . . ."

"What?" Tim leaned closer, and the guy clasped him by the neck, pulling him all the way down. Tim was too confused to react, and his docility proved dangerous.

The next thing he knew, the guy was sinking sharp, pointed teeth into his neck.

Tim cried out, more from surprise than pain, and tried to pull back. The guy struggled to keep him still, but couldn't stop Tim from wriggling completely. The teeth shifted, tearing open the initial puncture wounds, and Tim whimpered in pain.

The guy pushed him away, his lips stained with Tim's blood. "Fuck."

Tim clamped a hand to his neck, the stinging building to a burn, and climbed to his feet as quickly as he could manage. He was dizzy, wobbling backward, fear and panic consuming his brain. His neck hurt. He didn't understand why someone would _bite_ him. The cafeteria offered free lunch, for fuck's sake.

He almost laughed, hysteric at the thought, and stumbled backward another few steps before breaking into an unsteady run.

"Wait!" the guy shouted after him, fairly lively for someone who'd just jumped off a roof. "Let me expla—"

Tim hit the doors, charging back into the school as desperately as he'd torn out. He slammed into someone on the way—a teacher? The man grabbed his shoulders, face fuzzy in Tim's uncertain scope, and in the distance someone asked about an ambulance.

"Where are you hurt?" the man holding Tim asked, but answering was impossible. The air was like peanut butter. Tim's gaze fixed on his own red-stained fingers, and then the world went black.

* * *

There was a moment, as Tim was coming around, that he thought he was back in the hospital. He gasped, inhaling the dark, cold, frightening void of starched sheets and empty rooms; he was going to open his eyes and see the staples, alien intrusions dotting his mangled right arm, and be chained by that thick, blank cast. He was going to be alone.

"Oh, here he is," a woman's voice said, and someone's hot, slightly sweaty palm brushed the hair back from his forehead.

"Hey, kid." Another voice, male. "Think you can sit up for me?"

Tim struggled upright, dimly recognizing that he was in the nurse's office. The nurse himself was hovering close by, the principal not far behind him. She had her arms crossed over her suit jacket, and both adults looked extremely worried.

The last day was jumbled in Tim's mind. He remembered preparing supper in the listless halo of the kitchen light, dread comfortable in the pit of his stomach, and the diamond edges of the fall morning as he waited for the bus. His neck was throbbing. He was supposed to be very upset about something.

"Tim?" The nurse had never spoken to him before, but somehow made it sound as though they were old friends. Tim hadn't missed the forced bedside manner of medical professionals. He rubbed his eyes, and let his fingers travel to his neck.

He found a large, square bandage, and frowned at the nurse. "What happened?"

"We were hoping you could tell us," the principal said, her tone clipped. "According to Mr. Sullivan, you leaped up in the middle of Pre-Calculus, shouted for an ambulance, and ran from the room. But by the time he reached the field, the only one in need of medical attention was you."

Tim knew that was wrong. The boy—but they wouldn't believe him. _He_ barely believed himself. "I—I'm sorry. I don't really remember . . ."

"Mr. Drake." She stepped closer, dropping her arms to her sides. "Did someone injure you out there? It is _very_ important you tell me the truth."

Tim blinked at her. It was just instinct, but the feeling was undeniable—he didn't want to tell this woman anything. He shook his head. "No—no one hurt me. I think I must have . . ." He shrugged. He didn't have an explanation.

The nurse put his hand on Tim's arm. "You can trust us, kid. We know Jason Todd was out there, too."

Jason? Tim attached the name to the pair of fangs, and shuddered. It was the wrong thing to do. The nurse and principal exchanged looks, clearly suspicious. Tim scrubbed his face, unsure of why he was trying to protect a stranger who had, in fact, hurt him.

But also apologized. And tried to explain.

Tim sighed. "Look, I just—" His gaze landed on his hand, still stained from clutching his bleeding neck. Someone had obviously tried to swab him clean, but the blood was trapped under his fingernails and around his cuticles. "I had a panic attack. I thought I saw . . . my dad."

_Sorry, Dad._

The two adults suddenly weren't eyeing him so carefully. The principal cleared her throat.

"It's my first day back," Tim went on, the faint tremble in his voice only partly an act. He was tired. Today _had_ been a lot. "And I know I'm ready to go on, I just . . . I might need some breaks sometimes. I didn't mean to . . ." He gestured with his bloody hand, pretending to claw his own neck. "I promise I'm talking to a counselor, so can I just . . . go home for today?"

The principal was already edging for the door. The nurse still has his hand on Tim's arm. "Okay," he said. "But you gotta understand, kid, you can't shout fire when there isn't one."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"And I wanna get in touch with your counselor, okay? Just in case something like this happens again and we have to call them." The nurse squeezed Tim's arm and let go. "Ella, think we can arrange a ride for this one? The last bus already left for the day."

The principal pulled out her cell phone, humming an agreement, and Tim saw from her expression that she'd mentally vacated the room already.

He sure was lucky, he thought wryly, and almost laughed.

Tim dreamed of Dad, of the old days when Mom had just left and it was only the two of them, still getting used to the big, empty house without her. Later, they would come to fill up the space so completely that it seemed like there wasn't enough of it, that they were always in each other's way, but in those early days, their few rooms were as cavernous as the Louvre.

"Sometimes, it's just nice to come home to someone," Dad said. "It's nice to pretend we aren't alone for a while, don't you think?"

Tim turned to look at him, and his face was dotted with glass, streaming blood like tears down his unshaven face.

"Don't you think?" Dad repeated, oblivious. "It would be a shame if you were alone forever, son."

It sounded more like a curse than a wish. Tim woke up in a cold sweat, and watched the sun rise rather than risk dreaming again.


	2. Chapter 2

It was impossible to avoid the word  _vampire_ forever. It went hand in hand with blood drinking, although Tim—former middle school horror buff—recalled more than a few early legends that attributed the blood thing to werewolves, rather than their undead brothers. 

He sat at his kitchen table with a glass of orange juice, choosing to contemplate the possible existence of vampires rather than the shrinking contents of his own cupboards. He'd pinched and stretched Dad's life insurance payment out as much as he could, borrowing books on frugal living and eating for less than $5 a day from the library, but the simple truth was, he couldn't live on the amount Dad had left. Not without some kind of supplementary income.

It wasn't Dad's fault. He'd been young and healthy; death was the farthest thing from either of their minds. He definitely hadn't planned on Tim having so many goddamned  _medical_ bills.

Tim sipped the juice, which tasted pretty similar to the can it had come out of. He didn't want to complain about his quality of life. He'd eat cold beans and toast every day until he died if it would bring Dad back; it wasn't about the food. It was about having nothing.

He went back to vampirism. For argument's sake, he thought, say things like vampires existed in the world and Jason was one of them. Tim wasn't the type to start sharpening stakes in the basement, so how would a vampire affect his reality?

He rinsed his glass in the sink and crammed his homework in his backpack, impatient at his still-growling stomach. He was on A-Lunch; he could survive three hours more without eating. He just wished his body would stop bellyaching about it. 

"There's no breakfast," he said to his waistband, thumbing it and realizing he needed a belt. "But sack up, kid, it isn't forever."

Everything, Tim thought suddenly, would be forever for Jason. Hunger would be eternal. Grief would be eternal. And even jumping off the school roof wouldn't end his suffering, if he were suffering.

So . . . there was that.

Tim felt his reality bend, just a little bit, as the idea of Jason made room in his brain.

There was no helping it. Tim went looking for a job after school let out for the afternoon. He wasn't keen on working downtown, but it was the easiest place for him to reach. He could walk there from the school, or take the city bus from his house. Some of the nicer parts of town didn't offer than same convenience, and with Dad's car totaled, Tim was stuck with the easiest option until he could afford to buy a new one . . . which would most likely be a while.

A lot of places directed him to apply online, but a few had physical applications for him to fill out and it took enough time that, by the time he was ready to head home, it was dark.

He had to walk past a couple diners and more food trucks than he could count on his way to the bus stop, his stomach rumbling. He'd been too distracted with applications to focus on his hunger before, but now that he had nothing better to do, it was borderline unbearable.

He wanted to eat  _meat_ . He'd been living on rice, beans, and oatmeal for two weeks now. He tried to occupy himself with math—assuming he worked at minimum wage for as many hours a week as he could fit around school, he'd be able to pull almost $200 a week. He'd be tired, stressed, and have no social life, but the way things were going now, he doubted he'd notice the difference.  _And_ he'd be able to splurge on a hot dog every now and again.

Mind back on his stomach, he wasn't as aware of his surroundings as he should have been. When he passed by the mouth of a dark, dead-end alley, someone grabbed him from behind, dragging him into the alley so quickly, he didn't even have time to scream.

The person clamped a hand over his mouth, spun him around—and stopped.

"Shit," Jason said. The alley was dim, with the only light bleeding in from the street, but it was unmistakably him. His wavy hair was disheveled, fatigue aging his unshaven face.

"What the  _fuck_ ?" Tim slapped his hand away, darting a safe distance away but not leaving the alley. "Wh—wait. You're surprised. You thought I was a stranger."

"Tim—"

Surprised as he was that Jason knew his name, Tim wasn't having any of it. "Were you trying to  _mug_ me? Have you lost your mind?" He waved a finger in Jason's face. "You can't grab random people off the street and bite them, Jason!"

Jason gave him an incredulous look, and Tim second guessed himself. Maybe he'd jumped too quickly on the vampire theory; maybe he looked like a total weirdo now. "Anyway, you shouldn't grab people, period," he said, trying to retreat to stabler ground.

Jason curled his lip. One of his incisors was definitely more pointed than normal, but that didn't mean anything on its own. "I wasn't gonna hurt you."

Tim touched his neck on reflex, the burning sensation of bone tearing through flesh nowhere near distant enough in his memory. "Have you ever  _been_ bitten? It hurts like hell."

"When you're an idiot and try to break free." Jason loomed over him, maybe unintentionally, all brown leather and square jaw and a growl that urged Tim to think twice about running his mouth.

As if Tim had that kind of sense. "Who wouldn't try to break free?"

"Someone whose job is to feed the clan." Jason snapped his mouth shut the second the comment flew out, his frown transforming into a full-fledged scowl.

There were more of them? Tim took another step back, finding a wall directly behind him. He must have shifted directions in his flight; his body subconsciously trapping him here, maybe.

He pressed his palms against the rough bricks. "Vampires feed on other vampires?"

There was a sentence he'd never thought he'd say out loud.

Jason didn't reply for a moment; glancing toward the mouth of the alley, it seemed like he was considering an escape. Then he sighed, relaxing his stance significantly, looping his thumbs in his pockets. "I'm not a vampire."

Well, Tim felt like an idiot now.

"I'm a dhampir."

Somewhat less of an idiot.

"You're half human?"

Jason combed a hand through his hair, pushing his curls off his forehead. "No. Maybe. I was a human, and then a vampire bit me, and now I'm . . ." He drew a hand down his torso in a graceful gesture.

"Really?" Tim thumbed his bottom lip.

"I know what I am." Jason's scowl softened when he met Tim's eyes, maybe sensing his curiosity. "Dhampir are the knockoff brand of vampires. We're bound to a master, compelled to obey his every order. And when his life ends, so do ours."

Tim pinched his lip, then gave in and bit his thumbnail. "Wow. So you have a master?"

"Bruce." Jason said the name with a peculiar blend of resentment and respect, his mouth twisting like he'd eaten something bad.

Tim's stomach chose that extremely inopportune moment to rumble. He stepped back, embarrassed, his shoulders bumping the wall. He drew his sweatshirt closer around his shoulders, letting his backpack drop to his side.

Jason eyed him. Tim felt small.

"Do you have any more questions?" Jason didn't mention the noise; Tim was grateful for that. "Because, if you don't mind, I'd like to find an actual meal sometime tonight."

Tim imagined Jason hunting some other poor, oblivious human, and almost lost his appetite. "You can't."

Jason bared his teeth. "I have to eat."

"You can't hunt down innocent humans."

Jason stepped toward him, and Tim flinched—but the dhampir only yanked aside the collar of his unzipped jacket, pulling down his t-shirt to reveal a series of black-and-blue crowns cresting his shoulder. "I'm no hero, kid. I can't take all _this_ and not feed."

Tim stared at him, hand creeping up to touch the bruises, the raw puncture wounds—three, maybe four sets. He didn't realize his fingers were shaking until they came into contact with the steady, surprisingly warm curve of Jason's collarbone. He could feel his own heartbeat through the tips. He was quick in drawing himself back.

"That many?"

Jason shrugged. If the contact had perturbed him, he hid it well. "Bruce has a blood son now. Little fucker's growing so fast, he has to feed every day." He pulled his clothes back in place, zipping his jacket. "And so do I."

Tim's heart was pounding. "Okay."

"Okay?" Jason gave him a quizzical look, and Tim pushed up the sleeve of his sweatshirt, offering his forearm.

"Just . . . not the neck. Still sore."

Realization crested over the dhampir's face. "Are you sure?"

Yes, he was sure. In fact, Tim had never been _more_ sure about a decision. "I have this condition. It messes with my blood, makes it reproduce a lot faster than usual. You ask me, you just got hella lucky, man."

Cautious, the dhampir took Tim's arm in both hands and pressed his mouth to the tender, exposed underside of Tim's wrist. His lips were warm and soft.

His teeth, by contrast, were extremely sharp.

Tim bit his lip until he tasted blood, cursing Jason under his breath for being a liar. Iron in both of their mouths, they stayed in that alley for so long, it seemed like the rest of the world ceased to matter.

At one point, Tim leaned back against the brick wall, head bumping the rough clay. Jason reached out without raising his head, cupping the back of Tim's to protect it.

And far too late, Tim wondered what the hell he'd gotten himself into.

"I see here that you didn't graduate high school," the puffy-faced manager said, flipping through Tim's application. "Reason?"

"I'm still attending." Tim sat on his hands before he could start chewing his nails. Even though it was only a mom n'pop shop, his palms were sweating. This was his third interview in as many weeks.

The manager grunted, letting the papers fall back on the small table. The shop was part convenience store, part sandwich shop, and he'd offered Tim a milkshake before they'd started. It had taken the last scrap of Tim's pride to refuse. "Lemme be frank with you, kid. We ain't strugglin', but we don't have time to waste on washouts, either. I'm not interested in offerin' a position to a kid who's gonna quit once he gets overwhelmed with homework."

Tim was forced to admit he was repeating a year, that he'd spent most of last spring in the hospital. This had been the point, in his previous interviews, that he'd known he wasn't getting the job.

The man squinted at him. Tim saw the moment it clicked. "You're that kid. Sh—uh, my condolences for your loss."

Tim shifted uncomfortably, thumb worrying the outside seam of his jeans. "Thanks. Anyway, the homework isn't difficult for me, it won't be a problem. I need to work."

Two more weeks like this, and he'd be begging on his knees for a job. He'd never had big dreams, or anything, but feeling the small ones he'd accumulated over the years slowly drift out of his reach was driving him insane.

"Well . . ." The manager looked Tim's application over again. "Tell you what. We'll try you out on the cash, and if it works out, then we'll start talkin' about makin' it a regular thing. Fair enough?"

Tim, hardly in a position to be picky, nodded fervently. He must have thanked the man half a dozen times before heading out. He couldn't wait to—

He faltered on the sidewalk outside the store, breath hitching as if he'd been startled, stomach dropping at the reality check. If Dad were alive to tell, then Tim wouldn't have to jump through all of these hoops. How could he be so _stupid_?

The anger faded too quickly, leaving him at the mercy of the infinitely more terrible sense of grief. He didn't have Dad. He didn't have anyone. He could fall off the face of the earth and he doubted he'd be remembered.

It had just always been him and Dad. Missing those last months of school had driven that home: none of his classmates had visited him in the hospital, or kept in touch. He didn't blame them—he just hadn't realized he was so far in their periphery.

He moved along quickly, as if dislodging himself from that physical spot could keep the memories away. He didn't want to wallow. A job, no matter how small, was an opportunity, and he had to focus on that.

He headed aimlessly down the sidewalk, passing bars and dilapidated apartment buildings, some thought of the library lingering at the back of his mind. Nothing took his mind off the world like plunging into an obsessive project, and he couldn't imagine anything more engrossing than the existence of _vampires_.

When he reached the library, a narrow stone building wedged between the precinct and a rumored underground strip club, Jason was there.

Straddling a motorcycle by the curb, the dhampir didn't notice Tim at first. He was clipping his helmet to the handlebars, cell phone nestled between his ear and shoulder as he bitched at whoever was on the other end.

"—sure to be home before dark, _Dad_ ," Jason hissed, and Tim caught a flash of fangs as he approached. "You gonna lock me out if I'm late?"

Tim was at Jason's elbow before the dhampir saw him—but the second he did, he dropped the phone into his hand and hung up. The irritated look on his face vanished, his pale eyes lighting up like the fixture department at Home Depot. "What are you doing here? No, don't answer that. I know what you're doing, you're helping me with this goddamned paper."

"Well . . ." Tim didn't refuse, but he wasn't sure it was a good idea, either. "Is it that difficult?"

"Jesus," Jason swore. "Easy for you to say, Sam Beckett. Yes, it's a nightmare. Come on." He swung off the bike, which was already leaning on its kickstand, and grabbed Tim's elbow. "You don't have to be smart, just sit there and keep me from losing my mind."

"I think that might be a lost cause."

Jason shot him a startled look, then laughed.

He dragged Tim into the library, straight to the research section. The paper he was talking about was some literature piece Tim had banged out last night, half asleep. He dimly remembered comparing Holden Caulfield to Peter Pan, tasting the grounds at the bottom of his fourth cup of coffee, and closing the paper with the statement that the mental hospital, like Neverland, was for little boys that didn't want to grow up.

Thinking back, he should probably tweak that so it was clear he meant Holden specifically, not everyone who'd ever had a mental illness. Because that was problematic.

"I got a job," he told Jason's back, somewhere around the T section.

"Really?" Jason wheeled around, surprising him with an enthusiastic smile. "Up high, man."

Tim tentatively matched the smile with his own grin, slapping Jason's raised palm and managing not to blush through sheer force of will. He was pretty sure his muscles were rusty from lack of use. "Thanks."

"Where are you working?" Jason steered them to a reference computer, searching keywords as they talked. The click of keys was oddly satisfying in the otherwise silent library.

"Al's Smoke Shop. That convi/sandwich store about a block from here."

"That's where I buy my cigs." Jason jotted down a couple call numbers on the provided pad of sticky notes by the computer. "Hey, you mind grabbing these for me? I have to cross-reference them with a separate topic."

So Tim, of his own volition, spent the afternoon fetching and returning books, making notes, and adding evidence to his already strong theory that Jason needed no help understanding American literature. Or any literature, really.

He almost lost Tim when he went off into a ramble about how Caulfield's "hero's journey" directly countered the traditional narrative of Greek and Roman epics, presenting a classical hero forced to confront the realities of the world and coming up short—

"You could write this in your sleep," Tim interrupted, head spinning. He did okay in English, but he was far stronger in math and science. "I should just let you be."

"Don't you fucking dare." Jason pointed a stern finger at him, piles of books surrounding them in a forest of high-school level knowledge. "If I gotta do this alone, I'll jump out a window."

Tim had no reason to doubt that. "I think we need to talk about your coping mechanisms."

Jason rewarded him with a crooked smile.

By the time they left the library, it was dark. Jason zipped up his leather jacket, taking his helmet from his bike and then glancing at Tim. The street lamps made his black hair look particularly slick. "Let's get dinner."

It was getting cold, and Tim was still broke. "No—"

"Look, man, I made you keep me company. I can at least buy you a burger." Jason looked him up and down, and shook his head. "You're the size of a chihuahua."

"I couldn't—"

"Get on the fucking bike, Tim."

Tim got on the fucking bike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _nice thinking things through, Tim_


	3. Chapter 3

Tim wasn't sure how it became a thing, but at some point, it just was. Jason, now armed with two helmets, picked him up for school in the morning. Sometimes they went to Denny's and sometimes—more and more, now that Tim was gainfully employed—Jason came inside to watch Tim cook a big breakfast.

Jason ate, a little. He was vague on the specifics, but it seemed, as a former human, most of his old systems still worked. His heart beat. His stomach growled. He pissed blood and took shits—he wasn't vague enough about that part.

And then Tim would roll up his sleeve and let Jason add to the increasing collection of fang marks dotting his arms. It had stopped hurting at some point. He got so used to the feel of bone under his flesh that he dreamed about it, which was infinitely better than dreaming about car crashes and shattered glass.

It was a good arrangement. After that first shocking time, Tim never felt dizzy or light-headed. He never experienced any symptoms of blood loss—he couldn't. His disease was uniquely compatible with Jason's need.

He felt _better_ when Jason fed on him. Less sluggish, less likely to wallow. He rolled out of bed to the memory of Jason's bloodstained smile, and maybe it wasn't the healthiest attachment in the world, but _it was an attachment_. He needed it.

He was pretty sure Jason needed it, too.

"It's not really that I want to die," Jason confessed to him one morning. They'd stopped a block from school so he could have his smoke break, and Tim was leaning against a telephone pole, waiting for him to finish. "I just wanted it to _stop_."

Tim cocked his head at Jason. "I figured as much."

They didn't discuss Jason's home life. Tim guessed it was pretty rocky, judging from his increasingly hostile interactions with his brother. At school, the two barely talked—that Tim could see, anyway—and outside of it . . . well, Jason was with Tim a lot, these days. Sometimes he'd take phone calls that would make him cranky afterward.

When Tim was at work, Jason didn't go home. He drove around until the end of Tim's shift, and Tim only knew because when Jason came to pick him up, he smelled of wildness and night air and gasoline, and the bike's motor casing was hot to the touch.

Tim got used to the sight of Jason's bike parked in his driveway. When the first snow of the year hit, they shoveled together, and Tim gave Jason a spare key to the garage.

"You sure?" Jason thumbed the metal, his fingers white from the cold.

"Come on, man. That bike's worth more than anything in my house. You can't keep it in the driveway with the weather getting this shitty." It was beyond time to retire the bike for the season, but Tim wasn't going to be the one to point that out.

Jason's grin was dangerously pleased.

Tim's stomach lurched, and a small voice in the back of his mind whispered, _this is bad._

The next weekend, the last good one for a while, Jason took him down the coast to a rocky beach just past Bludhaven. It was freezing, and Tim's winter jacket only partly cut out the chill, but it gave him an excuse to hide against Jason's leather-clad back. They stood on the shore, boots half sunk in the gravel and sand.

Jason looked dramatically across the water and intoned, "Winter is coming."

Tim punched him in the arm for being a dork. Jason lit a cigarette, and drew Tim closer to him as the wind barreled past in a single-minded quest for the open sea.

"My mom used to take me here." Jason's voice was half lost in the wind, and Tim edged still closer, his arm pressing against Jason's side. "I have all of these, like, half memories of her. I know she was blond, and she took me to the beach, and she didn't leave me on purpose. But I don't really know what happened to her. By the time Bruce found me, I'd pretty much forgotten."

Tim rested his head on Jason's chest, too cold to care what it looked like. "She left you here?"

"She left me somewhere. Or maybe she died." Jason leaned down, his cheek a sudden weight on the top of Tim's head. "I don't know. I was, like, six or seven. And then I was on the street."

Tim was still. His heart was thudding wildly. Somehow, he'd never processed that Jason—like him—was an orphan. "For how long?"

"I was twelve when Bruce picked me up." Jason straightened, tone changing on a dime. It had been the wrong question to ask. "And then he turned me into a dhampir, and you can guess the rest."

Tim hunched his shoulders, certain there was more but not daring to pry. "Thanks for telling me."

"Aw, gimme a break." Jason pulled back. "I'm hungry, kid."

They found an outcropping with just enough shelter to hide them from the road, and Tim claimed a large boulder to lean against while he exposed his raw forearm to the chilly air. It was so dotted with bruises and marks that Jason couldn't find an opening.

He ran his fingers over the marks, brow furrowing, eyes bright against the dreary day. "You need to tell me if it's too much."

Tim just shook his head and shrugged out of his jacket, bracing himself against the cold. He pulled the collar of his long-sleeved shirt aside, baring a chunk of his shoulder and neck. There wasn't a lot he could do for Jason, he thought, except this.

Jason only hesitated for a moment. Truth was, he was just as bruised and bit as Tim, for all he tried to hide it. Tim was observant; he didn't have to see the marks to know why Jason winced every time he had to raise his right arm, or flinched when Tim knocked against his shoulder unexpectedly.

He sank his teeth deep into the curve of muscle between Tim's neck and shouldercap, hands clasping Tim's upper arms gently. Tim fought to control his breath—it didn't hurt more than when Jason bit his arm, but it was a different pain, the ache of scratching an itch too hard. Beneath the pain was a seed of relief, even pleasure.

He grasped the front of Jason's jacket. He was shivering by the time Jason pulled away, brutal cold breaking over his skin. It took all he had not to burrow into Jason's woodstove-worthy heat.

He put his jacket back on instead. Time had run away from him while Jason was feeding, and the lining was like ice on his skin.

Jason braced his hands on Tim's thighs, splaying his fingers as if determined to take up as much space on Tim's body as possible. His thumbs worried the inner seams of Tim's jeans.

"I mean it," he said softly. "You're still human. You can bow out any time you want, and I won't hold it against you."

Tim touched Jason's cheek. His heart had his throat in a chokehold, and his shivering wasn't entirely because of the cold. He remembered shattered glass and flashing teeth and how his pulse had nearly stopped when Jason plunged five stories to the ground.

This was why people loved vampires, he thought absently. They were beautiful in their deathlessness.

"As if you could become even more of a pain in my ass." He dropped his hand, aware he'd been staring at Jason far too long, and cleared his throat. When he left the sanctuary of the outcropping, the wind was waiting. It slammed into him as he turned to call, "Come on, Drac. Let's head home."

He heard Jason grumbling behind him about not being a real vampire, and was careful to hide his smile.

Jason straddled the chair in front of Tim's desk, commandeering someone's else's seat before the period began.

"We don't have time," Tim said, without looking up from the worksheet he should have completed last night but didn't. "You'll have to wait until the end of class."

"I'm not hungry."

Tim spared him a withering look. "You're always hungry." It was Jason's fault he hadn't finished the worksheet—he'd been too busy hanging out with the dhampir to remember his homework, falling asleep on the couch to the rhythm of Jason's breathing and the laugh track of whatever late-night sitcom had been playing.

Jason plucked the pencil from Tim's hand, spinning the sheet around and filling out the answers at a speed Tim greatly distrusted. "We should spend winter break together."

"Sure." Tim was more concerned with Jason's responses, which he was having trouble reading upside-down. He wasn't sure which outcome was worse—Jason helping him pass, or leading him to fail.

The dhampir bit the end of the pencil, accidentally letting a fang slip out. "I was thinkin' you could stay with me for a couple weeks."

"I—what?" Tim yanked the paper back to his side, frowning at Jason's near-illegible writing. It looked nothing like his, but that was a problem for someone who didn't have two minutes until the final bell. "I can't tell if these are correct or just really good bullshit."

"Does it matter? You're gonna get an A." Jason handed the pencil back, with teeth marks. "Bruce and the others are gonna be out of town over the break, and I know it's a pain, but you'd be doing me a favor. I, uh . . . I don't want to be alone."

Tim finally absorbed what Jason was asking, and stopped fussing. "You're serious."

Jason looked away. "You gonna make me beg, or what?"

"That's a little tempting," Tim admitted, but his mind was reeling. He'd never stayed that long with someone who wasn't family. He was worried they'd end up fighting, but more than that, he was worried Jason wouldn't let him come back. What if this was what the dhampir had been angling for all along?

He sighed. It didn't matter, in the end. "I'll go."

Jason's crooked grin was triumphant.

Tim sensed a trap. But he remembered how relieved he'd felt when his empty house had rung with the sound of Jason's laughter, and couldn't bring himself to recant.

Wayne Manor was so clearly a vampire mansion, Tim couldn't believe the good citizens of Gotham hadn't surrounded it with pitchforks and torches already.

It was craggy and Gothic, riddled with gargoyles and arches and spires, built from black stone and granite and walled off from the outside world by tall, wrought iron gates. He pressed closer to Jason as they plowed up the muddy lane, not happy to be left on the front steps when Jason went to park the bike.

Dusk was crawling over the horizon, and he didn't like the look of the eaves over the stairs. He kept his overnight bag slung over his shoulder, clutching the strap for a false sense of security.

Jason, in his black leather jacket and dark jeans, seemed to fit in here—the broad-shouldered protagonist of a horror movie, maybe—but Tim felt supremely out of place as the dhampir returned and let him into the Manor. Everything looked old and expensive and far too fragile. He almost had a heart attack when Jason stomped across the parqueted foyer in muddy boots.

"I can hear you having a meltdown," Jason said over his shoulder. "Relax, Timbo. The cleaners will be here tomorrow."

Tim shivered anyway. The vaulted ceilings and ornamented walls were the opposite of comfort; he scuttled after Jason quickly, reluctant to be left alone here. "I can't believe this is where you _live_."

"It gets old." Jason reached back without looking, fingers splayed.

Somehow, Jason wanting his hand was more frightening than whatever was hiding in that suit of ceremonial armor. The dhampir pulled him up the winding central flight of stairs, down lavishly decorated halls, and through a heavy, polished oak door. His room, at least, was normal.

Jason dropped his hand, spreading both arms wide in a silent _ta da!_ "Welcome to my sanctum."

"Nerd." Tim deposited his overnight bag on Jason's king-sized bed—okay, maybe the room wasn't exactly _normal_. But it had band posters on the walls instead of museum-quality paintings, and the closet was crammed with Jason's grungy favorites. A massive bookcase took up most of one wall, sharing space only with a doorway that led to a second, smaller bedroom. "Do you share?"

"Not usually." Jason slung an arm around him from behind, either oblivious to or unimpressed by Tim's strangled exclamation of shock. "This room was supposed to be for the mom of the house—Bruce's mom—and him, until he was old enough to sleep alone."

Temporarily distracted, Tim peered into the second room with more curiosity. "You said _supposed to be_."

"She was killed when he was a kid." Jason's breath brushed the back of Tim's neck, his tone indifferent. His hand drifted to Tim's throat, fingers pressing against the pulse point. "You okay? This is going kinda nuts."

"She wasn't, like, killed in this room, was she?" Tim pulled away, conscious of Jason's attention.

Jason grinned, slipping his hands in his pockets. "So you _are_ freaked out."

Not for the reasons he thought. Tim grabbed his bag from Jason's bed and trucked it into the second room, grumbling darkly about dhampirs thinking they were clever when they were really just assholes. "And anyway," he said, coming out again, "that isn't something you just drop into a convers—what are you doing?"

Jason looked at him like he had three heads, chucking the t-shirt into a laundry hamper by his bed. "Changing my shirt. What does it _look_ like I'm doing?"

"If you're going to be sarcastic, I'm going to leave."

"If you had to give up sarcasm or starve, you'd already be dead." Jason rummaged in his closet, pulling out a black t-shirt that looked almost exactly like the one he'd just discarded. "Which actually reminds me, Dick and Alfred left a bunch of food in the fridge for us. Well, mostly you. But don't eat any shit you don't like just to be polite—Dick'll finish it off when he gets back, he's a friggin' bottomless pit."

Tim's gaze unconsciously followed the curves of Jason's muscles, flowing up his back to the bend of his shoulder, where a purple bruise haloed a fresh bite mark. "I don't think you've mentioned Alfred before."

"He's a dhampir. Bruce's . . . I don't know." Jason shrugged, muscles stiffening with the gesture. He aborted the mission to pull his shirt over his head, leaning against the frame of his walk-in closet as if that was what he'd meant to do all along. "Companion, I guess. Old as dirt, but he still runs all of Bruce's errands and shit."

Tim crossed the room and held out his hands for the shirt, careful to avoid Jason's raw shoulder as he pulled it over Jason's arms. Even though Jason fed on him as frequently—if not more than—he himself was bit, Tim couldn't shake the nauseous feeling he got every time he saw Jason's bite. Maybe because it was only in one spot. Maybe because it was always fresh.

Maybe because Tim cared more about Jason than he did himself.

Jason got his arms through and took over, smoothing the front of the shirt down and pushing Tim's hands away in the process. He caught the tips of Tim's fingers for a second, letting them trail down to his stomach before abruptly shoving him away. "Okay, okay, I'm not totally helpless."

"I know," Tim said, annoyed. "Next time I'll just watch you struggle, how about that?"

The fridge really had been crammed with food, although Tim was more enamored with the kitchen itself. Like the rest of the house, it was far too large and reeked of money, but unlike the chandelier in the first-floor bathroom or the Tiffany necklace on the taxidermied deer, its richness was practical.

He was marveling at the bullet blender when Jason came up behind him again, arm wrapping around his chest, chin on his shoulder. "It's ridiculous, right? Only one and a half people under this roof actually eat."

Tim set the blender back in its place, heart thudding again. _This is bad,_ the voice in the back of his mind warned. _Pull away_.

He didn't. He liked the strength, the warmth, of Jason at his back. And when it became clear Jason wasn't letting go easily this time, he leaned into it, head resting on Jason's good shoulder. "Hungry?"

Jason turned his head, teeth skating Tim's neck in a lighthearted, slightly damp trail. "Still full from lunch. But you must be."

Tim shrugged, breath hitching when the movement brought Jason's lips in contact with his skin. He ventured for the fridge, and Jason let his arm drop. Tim was sorely tempted to ask what they were doing here, because it felt a hell of a lot like playing house, but instead he pulled out a Tupperware container of roast beef and switched on the oven.

"How many are in your clan?" He faced the oven rather than Jason—he was too afraid his thoughts were spelled out on his features. "You've never said."

Jason leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. He regarded Tim for a long moment, and Tim wondered if he'd asked the wrong thing again. Jason rarely talked about the clan for a reason—but this, the full fridge and lavish kitchen—was far from the environment Tim had expected.

"Ten," Jason finally said. "Seven vampires, two dhampirs, and a human."

Tim stared. "A human?"

"Dick." Jason's tone suggested he didn't want to elaborate.

Tim stuck the leftover roast in the oven, set the timer, and shuffled over to where Jason was leaning against the counter. He started to push up the sleeve of his sweatshirt, then changed his mind and just stripped it off.

When he emerged from the fleece, Jason was staring at him. "My turn. What are you doing?"

Tim toyed with the hem of his t-shirt. "I just . . . I get the feeling you don't—um. Get enough."

Jason quirked an eyebrow, but didn't say anything.

"I mean, I'm no expert, but seven vampires is a lot," Tim rambled on, cheeks hot enough to heat the roast without the help of the oven. He pinched his shirt, then gave in and stripped that over his head, too. "So here. Take what you want."

Jason's eyes were clouded. "Don't fuck around, Tim." His knuckles tightened on the counter, white from the strain.

"I'm not." Tim stretched his hand out. He didn't entirely understand the bitterness in Jason's voice, but he trusted there was a reason. And if he could help, even a little bit, he wanted to. Jason wasn't a talker by nature, and words had a way of rolling off him like water; but this, he had to understand.

He grabbed Tim's hand with sudden vehemence and yanked him forward. Tim's socked feet slipped on the floor. He had to seize Jason's forearm for balance, feeling the muscles ripple under his sudden weight. Before he could catch his breath, Jason had taken his face in both hands. His lips were barely an inch from Tim's.

"Ja—"

"You don't want to know what I want." Jason cut off the word with his thumb, pressed against Tim's lips. "And you definitely don't want to give it to me."

"You gonna eat me or something?"

Jason growled low in his throat. "Maybe I will."

Something flickered in his eyes, and Tim realized the double entendre too late. He stepped back, and Jason smirked.

He probably thought he won, or something, as if turning everything into a massive joke was a point in his favor. Excuse Tim for trying to be nice. He punched Jason in the chest, or tried, because the dhampir intercepted him, open hand wrapping around his clenched fist.

"I'd do it. If you really gave me permission." The smirk slid gracefully from Jason's face, but his blue eyes were still lighthearted, ready to play it off as teasing. Ready, but not fully committed. He was waiting on Tim to make the next move.

When Tim found his voice again, it was low and serious. It rattled even him. "Is this what you invited me here for?"

"I—fuck, Tim, no—"

"Do you think I'm a moron?" Tim stared at their connected hands. "I've seen the way you look at me."

Jason swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. "Okay, fine." He was trying to come across as glib, Tim could tell. "Maybe it's been a while since I've gotten any and I figured, why not?"

Tim dropped his fist. He didn't believe Jason's words, but he had an inordinate amount of faith in the unease that rolled across the dhampir's face before he could hide it. What was he supposed to do, walk away? They both knew it was far too late for that. If Jason was expecting rejection, he'd come to wrong human.

Tim backed up, hips hitting the opposite counter. It took him less than a second to hop onto it, legs flailing awkwardly for only a moment. As soon as he'd found his balance, he spread his arms in an unquestioning invitation. "I already told you it's okay."

Jason came for him.

He slammed into Tim's chest, seizing Tim's thighs and sliding him forward. Tim folded his legs around Jason's waist before his ass left the counter, hands flying over Jason's shoulders for support. He found the nape of Jason's neck just as Jason found his lips.

Jason held him so tightly, Tim wasn't sure whose heart was whose. One of Jason's fangs grazed Tim's bottom lip, drawing blood. Jason lapped it with his tongue, took a breath, sucked on it. He'd said he wasn't hungry, but of course, it had been a lie.

Tim arched his head back in a clear invitation. He was sure he was fulfilling every vampire novel cliché in the book, and he didn't care.

When Jason sunk his teeth into Tim's neck, Tim hoped it would leave a mark. Hell, he hoped it scarred. The pain was nothing compared to the thudding of Jason's heart against his, the heat of Jason's body through his t-shirt, the throb in his abdomen that promised he would feel much, much better if he just pressed his crotch still closer to Jason's hips—

Jason retracted his teeth with a sharp gasp, hand working its way between them to splay over Tim's chest. His eyes were bright, but he no longer looked hungry. Tim cupped his face, meaning to ask what the problem was, and Jason turned his head to clamp his jaws around Tim's wrist.

Tim squeaked. Jason had never gone in for seconds before. His fangs broke scabs that had only freshly formed, dried blood flecking the corners of his mouth.

Tim laced his fingers through Jason's hair, and wondered—almost disinterestedly—if this was how he died.

Jason released him again, only to travel further up Tim's arm to his bicep. He wrapped one arm around Tim's waist to support him, and Tim let himself slump over Jason's sturdy frame. Jason kissed his shoulder, lips soft before his dagger teeth re-emerged. His breath was coming heavy now.

He pierced Tim again and again, sometimes only for seconds before moving on, until Tim lost track of how many times he'd relived the sensation of teeth tearing flesh. Jason lapped at each wound, and Tim didn't know if it was the heat of the moment or a true biological function, but it seemed like his saliva numbed the bites, which were already congealing as Jason moved down Tim's chest to his sides. He kissed Tim's ribs, laving insistently at each one, teeth closing around Tim's nipple.

Tim started to protest—the only time he had second thoughts—and Jason ignored him, stretching his mouth wide over the sensitive spot. His fangs nestled on either side of the nipple, tongue still working furiously. When he bit, Tim cried out, nails curling across Jason's shoulderblades. It felt like his nerves had been turned all the way up to ten.

Jason's palm pressed against the crotch of Tim's jeans, kneading rhythmically as he continued his path. He was kissing as often as he was biting, now, and the bites could really only count as nips. Tim wasn't sure Jason was even eating, just tasting Tim's blood for sport. He left two red, raw marks on Tim's left side, and then he was pulling down the zipper of Tim's jeans.

He wasn't actually going to—

Tim was alarmed for a second, but Jason just slipped his hand in Tim's pants and straightened, claiming Tim's mouth with his own. He tasted like smoke and iron. His body was far steadier than Tim's.

Tim groaned when Jason worked his fingers under the waistband of his underwear. His hips canted slightly as Jason stroked him off, but his head was beginning to swim and there wasn't enough air in the room. He was lost on anything that wasn't kissing Jason, and feeling that lovely, warm, insistent pressure between his legs.

Jason stopped to spit on his palm, and Tim let his head loll on Jason's shoulder. Jason rested his cheek on the top of Tim's head and kept going, twisting his wrist and thumbing the head of Tim's cock. Tim was dimly aware of letting out noises that kept making Jason's breath hitch. The pressure was building. Each stroke felt better, and Tim writhed, trying to fuck Jason's hand. Jason cupped him, kissed his temple and the top of his head, his free hand still steady on Tim's waist.

Tim gripped Jason's shoulder and brought himself the rest of the way there, groaning into Jason's neck as he came higher, and higher, and—

"Aah—" Tim choked the sound, strangling it into a whimper, and Jason lifted his head to kiss him fiercely. The room was spinning. Jason's t-shirt was wet. Tim's body was covered in bite marks.

"I . . . need to lie down," Tim said faintly. He put both of his arms around Jason's neck. There was a lot of red in his blurred vision, but he'd worry about that later. He needed to sleep. He didn't even protest when Jason lifted him bodily from the counter, cradling him close. "I'm sorry, I can't . . ."

He couldn't finish the sentence. He rested his head on Jason's shoulder.

"Tim?" Jason's alarmed voice seemed to be coming from very, very far away. "Tim, are you—wait a minute—"

 _Sorry_ , Tim tried to say, but he was already drifting off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _screams dramatically in the distance_


	4. Chapter 4

Tim was swamped in bedcovers, sore but oh so relieved to be curled up in soft pillows and warm blankets. Everything felt hazy and distant, and he thought he might be having one of those dreams he sometimes experienced right before waking up. His eyes couldn't quite stay open, and although the sensation of lying in bed was familiar, he knew there was something wrong with this picture.

He shifted, pulling his hand from under his pillow, and knocked against something much harder than the bed dressings. He pulled the blanket back, his head too heavy to lift, and identified a bruised shoulder.

 _Jason_.

He was too dazed to freak out, but he did recognize this was abnormal. Jason shouldn't be at his house.

 _Maybe I'm not at my house,_ he thought absently, and burrowed into Jason's bare back. His arm found its way across Jason's chest, and that was nice.

He'd worry later.

He'd been dozing for a while when he twisted his shoulder the wrong way and a sudden, fierce burst of pain made it impossible to sleep any longer.

He sat up and pulled off the heavy covers of Jason's king bed. His torso was dotted with tiny, red puncture wounds. His first thought was that they were lucky it was winter. His second was that they were idiots.

There was a breakfast tray on the nightstand, but no sign of Jason. Tim decided getting some food in his system was more pressing than finding the dhampir in the huge mansion, and scooted to the edge of the bed to check out his choices.

It was probably the strangest assortment of food he'd seen in his life: pumpkin seeds mixed with dried fruit, oranges and strawberries rolled in granola, hard-boiled eggs on a bed of spinach, a bar of dark chocolate melting in a still-steaming bowl of grits, a glass carafe of thick, green juice. It took Tim a few seconds to connect the dots. They were all food rich in iron.

Chuckling to himself, he ate two eggs and most of the strawberries before Jason re-entered the room, carrying a french press of coffee and two mugs.

Tim stretched his arms out at once. "Caffeine. Yes. A man after my own heart."

"Juice first." Jason set the french press on the tray and nodded to the carafe.

Tim didn't trust the look of it, but with Jason holding his coffee hostage, he didn't have much choice. He downed a full eight ounces of the funny-smelling stuff, wrinkling his nose at the taste. "This is revolting."

Jason was watching him carefully. "How are you feeling? Sluggish?"

Tim poked at the oldest of his bite marks, finding the scabby dent in his wrist, and shrugged. "A little sore. Sorry I went all gothic damsel on you."

"You're sorry?" Jason handed one of the mugs to Tim, picking up the french press again. "Tim, it was my fucking fault. I had to call Dick to make sure you weren't going to _die_ or something."

The stream of coffee wavered, splashing the edge of Tim's mug, and Jason eased the press upright again.

And suddenly, Tim could picture it—Jason shaking him, calling his name, growing increasingly vehement as Tim didn't respond. It had to have been bad, for him to contact his brother. Unsure if he was allowed or not, Tim rested his hand gently on Jason's forearm.

Jason tensed, and pulled away. "Look, we should just—Jesus." He stood, tugging his hand through his hair. "This was a mistake."

Tim curled his rejected hand around the steaming coffee mug, stung. "Way to cut and run, asshole."

"I'm trying to be the good guy," Jason snapped, turning back to him. "Maybe you're still dazed right now, but when you come back to your senses—"

"I feel just fine, thank you."

"—you're going to hate me!"

Tim cradled the coffee in his lap. Jason was nowhere near as upset as he'd been the day Tim met him, but there was still something of that wildness in his eyes and the set of his hips. His wide mouth was twisted in a frown, and for a moment, all Tim could think of was that mouth closing over his.

"I couldn't," he said.

Jason growled at him.

"Honestly—" Tim set the mug on the end table and climbed out of bed, a little clumsier than usual but steady enough. He was still in his jeans, but Jason had taken off his shoes and socks for him. The rug felt nubby on his soles as he crossed to Jason, grasping his forearm. "I'll be the first to admit this wasn't what I planned. But I don't have any regrets _._ "

Jason shrugged him off for a second time, but this time, Tim didn't let him go so easily. He seized Jason's arm again, forcing the dhampir to look at him. "This is gonna sound really fucking stupid. But . . . I mean, I was alone in the world, and then I met you."

Jason scowled. "You're right. That does sound fucking stupid."

Tim lifted his chin. "If you're going to pull the whole 'I'm pushing you away to protect you' crap, let me tell you right now, it's not gonna fly. I can understand if you don't care about me as much as I care about you. I _can't_ understand this bullshit dark knight culture—"

Jason kissed him.

Tim grabbed the front of Jason's shirt, holding him close, and when Jason pulled away, they were both a little pink.

"Okay," Jason said, guiding Tim back to the bed. "Fine. You win. Drink your juice."

"I already had—"

"Drink more juice. Dick said it was good for you." Jason's tone signaled the end of the debate, but when he reached over, pulling Tim close to kiss his temple, Tim couldn't hold it against him.

And then he remembered he was supposed to work today.

Jason reluctantly dropped him off outside the shop, making him promise—twice—to call the second he felt dizzy or shaky or anything but normal.

Tim was pretty sure _normal_ was out of the question from now on, but he promised, and then he had to go because he was already three minutes late to clock in. He headed for the glass door, paused, and wheeled around.

"I'll bring you lunch on your break," Jason said, maybe thinking that was the hold up. "And it's beyond time you have a fucking cell phone, but we can talk about that la—"

Tim darted back to the bike, resting a hand on Jason's thigh as he stretched up to kiss the dhampir on the cheek.

"Oh." Jason's face went pink. "Have a good day."

Tim would have rather have stayed in bed, preferably with Jason, but the now-routine rhythm of his shift was a welcome break after the last day and a half. It reminded him the real world still existed, that he still had to worry about bills and homework and being alone and all of the things that had happened to him before Jason.

There was a fairly big project in American History due after the break, not to mention a ten-page paper on the demise of the classic novel (or, in Jason's case, an essay challenging the topic). Tim had breezed through his math worksheets during his last study hall yesterday, knowing that he'd want to concentrate most of his time on Jason and the Manor.

And underneath the mundane thoughts, Tim felt like a tightrope drawn too taut, quivering under the inevitable spotlights. He knew what was happening, but he didn't know what would happen _next_. And for the first time in months, he was dying to find out.

He ate with Jason on his break, both of them picking the green beans out of the reheated casserole Jason brought. He couldn't remember, afterward, what they talked about. Maybe homework; maybe literature. Jason was pensive. He asked twice if Tim was _sure_ he could continue his shift.

"I'm fine," Tim insisted, so often that he felt like he was back in the colorless, freezing hospital, trying to talk the physical therapist into signing his release form. When he was there, he'd wanted nothing more than to get out. "Are you?"

Jason's deer-in-the-headlights look suggested he wasn't used to hearing this question.

Tim's fifteen-minute respite was almost over, so he had to let it go. He leaned over to kiss Jason, tasting mayonnaise, and Jason's hand closed over his shoulder for a moment, holding him there. Tim resolved to ask again later, at a better time.

Things were changing. He couldn't name the shift, not yet, but he could feel it coming over him like the beginnings of a cold. He knew he'd be okay, but he wasn't sure about Jason. He wasn't sure the dhampir was _strong_ enough, strange as the idea was. He kept remembering the empty rooms of the Manor, and the comparatively full fridge.

Something didn't make sense there, and Jason hovered on the fracture between the competing realities. Fractures were fragile. Tim didn't know what he'd do if he leaned on the wrong pressure point and Jason fell in.

He was glad to see Jason waiting for him at the end of his shift, still on that stupid motorcycle.

Tim pointed to it. "If you hit black ice on that, we're both dead."

"I doubt I'd die." Jason tossed him the spare helmet. "Dick called again. Bruce is sending him home early."

"Is everything okay?" Tim strapped on the helmet, a gesture so familiar he sometimes dreamed about it, and wondered if this was Jason's way of hinting he had to leave.

"Other than both Bruce and Dick massively overreacting to yesterday's phone call, yeah." Jason grimaced. "I knew I shouldn't have counted on that dumbass."

Tim halted in his tracks, an unpleasant thought occurring to him. "Wait. How much did you tell him?"

"Just that I bit you and you passed out." Jason motioned for him to come closer. "Can we not have this conversation on the sidewalk?"

"You started this conversation on the sidewalk." Tim got on the bike behind Jason, clinging to the dhampir's leather jacket. Jason kicked off, making further discussion impossible, and Tim spent most of the ride back to the Manor hoping they didn't spin out. He felt like an icicle by the time Jason pulled into the garage. His teeth were chattering.

Jason wrapped an arm around him. "Guess it's time to break out the Bentley."

Tim shot him a withering look. "You think?"

They shuffled inside, Tim rubbing his hands furiously together and trying to work up the courage to ask Jason if he should leave. Before he could decide if this was the moment, Jason was herding him into the warm kitchen and Dick was there, reheating a lasagna and cooking something green on the stovetop.

His black hair was artfully messy. Red windburn dotted his tanned cheeks and knuckles, and he grinned broadly when they came in. Tim, who hadn't expected company so soon, froze. He'd never had a real conversation with Jason's brother, and yet they were clearly beyond the usual pleasantries. He had no idea what he was supposed to say.

"There you guys are." Dick grabbed the handle of the pan, shaking it in lieu of stirring. "I was starting to think you'd run away from home."

Jason claimed a kitchen chair. "Tim had work."

"And you had to . . . what, hold his balls for him?" Dick's easy grin made it clear he was joking, but Jason just scowled.

Tim linked his fingers behind his back. "Sorry you had to cut your trip short."

"Don't worry about it." Dick was breezy, energetic, taking green juice from the fridge and pouring two tall glasses before returning to the stove. "Just drink your juice. Jason, too."

Jason made a face.

"Drink," Dick repeated. "Tim, after supper I'm going to look at those bites. I hope you understand that what happened is _not_ normal dhampir behavior, nor is it acceptable." He spared a sour look for Jason before snapping his affable smile back in place.

Tim shifted, uneasy. Jason was slumped in his chair, taking a fierce and unprecedented interest in the wall.

"It's okay," Tim finally ventured.

Dick looked at him, eyebrows raised.

Tim fidgeted. "I have, uh—it's this disease. I can lose a lot of blood and not die."

Dick sighed. "That doesn't make you a buffet table."

"Why not? Jason is." Tim wasn't sure if he felt more emboldened or estranged by Jason's refusal to look at him, but either way, he wasn't putting up with it for long. "You can worry about me all you like, but shouldn't you worry more about your brother feeding seven vampires?"

_And jumps out a window rather than endure it another second?_

Dick stopped stirring.

Awkward silence stretched between them.

Belatedly, Tim thought he should have done a better job at making small talk. Jason hadn't asked him to go off like that. Cheeks flaming, he backed toward the door, and when no one moved to stop him, fled into the hall.

He found his way back to Jason's bedroom. This morning's impromptu breakfast was souring on its tray, but Tim ignored it and headed straight for the shower. Maybe he should have been gathering his stuff instead, but he didn't want to leave. Dick was the one in the wrong here.

Right?

He didn't realize anyone had entered the bathroom until he heard the door close with a loud _click_.

He pulled the shower curtain back at once, panicked, but it was only Jason. He advanced toward the tub with a hungry look on his face.

"I didn't mean to—" Tim began.

Jason, fully clothed, shoved him against the shower wall and kissed him. He spread his palm flat on Tim's chest, thumb pressing against the mark he'd left around Tim's nipple. He ran his other hand up Tim's bicep to cup his neck, tilting Tim's head as he liked.

"Jason," Tim said, too stunned to say anything else when the dhampir pulled back. Jason's t-shirt was half soaked from the spray, but he seemed to neither notice nor care.

"You don't have to apologize." Jason kissed Tim's collarbone and chest, gentle where he'd left marks yesterday. His voice was breathless, intoxicated—Tim didn't know what had gotten into him, but it didn't matter. "You can do it again. You can do it a thousand times. You can do whatever the hell you want, Tim, just—stay. Fuck—"

He slid down, kneeling to press his mouth to Tim's ribs and stomach. He paused at Tim's abdomen, his breath hot even after the warm water of the shower. His fingers were tight on Tim's hips. "I need you."

Like Tim didn't already know.

"Hell of a way to ask someone out, Drac."

Jason pressed his forehead to Tim's skin, nesting his face there like it belonged. "Hell of a way to say yes."

"As if I'd say no." Tim threaded his hand through Jason's hair, the damp curls tangling around his fingers. He caught his breath as Jason went lower, lips skimming his hollow places, one hand migrating from his hip to cradle his balls. "Fuck. Are you seriously . . . ?"

Jason spared him a grin before swallowing him down.

Tim let his head hit the shower wall, and hoped the water was loud enough to drown out his moans.

Jason slept almost immediately, one arm slung over Tim's shoulders, but Tim had more trouble. He'd been too unconscious to miss home last night, but now he was gripped with the uncomfortable sense of unbelonging he always felt when he was sleeping somewhere other than his bed. He knew it would ease eventually, but no matter how happy he felt in Jason's arms, a large part of him still wanted to be back in his small, familiar room.

He gave himself an hour or so before giving up on sleep and easing out from under Jason's arm, padding down to the kitchen for a glass of water.

To his surprise, Dick was still up, making a pot of tea and going over some kind of ledger that he closed the second Tim entered the room. "Oh. Hey, kid."

Tim froze. He'd taken dinner in Jason's room like a coward, but now he had no choice but to swallow his words. "I'm sorry about earlier."

"You don't have to apologize." Dick slid the ledger into one of the cupboards and produced two mugs. "Tea?"

"Um . . . yes, please. You aren't angry?"

"Well, you aren't wrong." Dick sighed, dropping the forced cheerfulness. "Why don't you sit?"

Tim claimed a chair at the table, wary. He couldn't shake the feeling that the worst was still coming. Dick dropped a tea bag in each mug and offered Tim the sugar bowl. Tim shook his head, linking his fingers together on the tabletop.

Dick kept his back to Tim as he prepared the tea. Tim was used to staring at Jason's shoulders, which stretched out every t-shirt he owned, and he felt extremely weird when he realized he was ogling someone else's. He dropped his eyes to the table. Dick was wiry where Jason was built; it was an innocent observation.

Dick set the tea in front of him. "I grew up around Bruce, so I forget that a lot of this is beyond weird to most people." He pulled out the chair next to Tim with a scrape and sat, cradling his own mug in long-fingered, graceful hands. "It was Jason who taught me what _normal_ means for humans, actually."

Tim stole a glance at him before returning his attention to the table. "Jason told me a little bit about how he came to Bruce."

"He did?" Dick sounded surprised. "He's never talked to me about that." He lifted the mug to his mouth, blowing on the surface of the liquid inside. "He probably figured it was none of my business."

Tim made a neutral sound and risked another look. Dick was relaxed in his chair, one elbow resting on the back of it as he sipped his scalding tea. When he met Tim's eyes, he smiled.

"You've probably noticed Jay and I don't get along," he said, like that wasn't the grossest understatement Tim had heard all year.

" _No_." Tim feigned a scandalized tone, pressing a hand to his heart like he was a saloon girl in the Old West, and Dick's smile became a warm, amused laugh.

"It's . . . the thing is, I was pretty excited when Bruce brought us Jason." Dick leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "The clan wasn't always this big. It used to just be me, Alfred, and Bruce. I was over the moon to have another—to have a companion. Then Bruce turned Jason into a dhampir."

He stared straight ahead, his eyes losing focus. "I was only nine, but I know that's what went wrong." He laced his fingers around the mug again, his breath coming shallow now. "Jay's always resented me for staying human when he couldn't."

Dick's voice broke, and Tim clasped his arm without thinking twice. Dick looked at him, gaze sharpening when his eyes landed on Tim's face. "I couldn't do anything for him. I still can't. Not enough to matter, anyway."

"You were giving him blood, weren't you?" Tim had had a lot of time to think about the argument he'd witnessed between the brothers, the innocuous paper bag that seemed to send Jason over the edge. It had only been a guess, but now, after hearing Dick's side of things, he was sure he was right. "Behind Bruce's back?"

Dick bowed his head. "It kills me. It kills me to sit here and not be able to do anything. If Bruce would only make me a dhampir—"

"He won't." Jason's voice came from the door, and Tim jumped, dropping his hand from Dick's arm and instantly regretting it. He wasn't doing anything to be ashamed of. Jason leaned in the doorway, thumbing the band of his nylon track pants. "You think I haven't argued with Bruce about the same damn thing? He's told me, point blank, that the one thing he'll never do is turn you into a dhampir."

Dick gave him a sad look. "Jason . . ."

"Shut up." Jason pushed off from the doorway and slid into the chair next to Tim, slinging his arm over the back. "It's not your goddamned fault. I know that." He kept his eyes on the table as he spoke. "I don't hate you. You're a pain in the ass, but you're family."

Maybe to cover up his embarrassment, maybe just because he wanted to, he dropped his arm from the back of the chair to Tim's shoulders, pulling him close. "By the way, I'm dating this guy now. So you don't gotta worry about me so much."

Tim almost hunched his shoulders self-consciously, but Jason was warm and Dick tilted his head in a way that suggested he wanted to hear more, so he sat up a little straighter instead, and drank his tea.

"So," Dick said, his mischievous tone bringing them back from the brink of Serious Adult Talks, "do I need to give you guys the spiel about using protection, or are you good?"

Jason stiffened. "Christ, Dick."

Tim rested his chin on his hand, pretending to be fascinated. "What's protection?"

"Don't wind him up, Tim—"

"I can draw a diagram." Dick grinned at Jason's irritated growl.

"Pictures always help," Tim teased, and Jason pretended to put him in a headlock. It was a normal enough interaction, but Tim couldn't help but feel like there was more to it than that—that the pressure between the two brothers had lessened, even if it was just a little bit.

"Better yet," Dick said, his expression almost serious enough to be believed, "I can offer a demonstration—"

"I'm going back to bed." Jason pushed the chair away from the table. "You're both heathens."

Dick grinned at Tim, who was startled to find himself returning it.

"I noticed a cucumber in the fridge earlier," he said, and Jason stalked out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Tim is, like, so dramatic._


	5. Chapter 5

The bank teller—a blond, middle-aged woman in a pink sweater—seemed almost as pleased by the balance in Tim's savings account as he was. She congratulated him twice on his work ethic and offered him a grape lollipop, which he only accepted because Jason was waiting for him outside.

His boyfriend was leaning on the brick side of the building, having elected to stay in the heat rather than remove his baseball cap or sunglasses.

Tim was less enthusiastic to see April rolling in with record-breaking highs, but thanks to the sudden heat wave, the money he'd been setting aside to pay the oil bill could go directly into his savings. He almost had a thousand dollars—not even enough for a full semester of college, but more than he'd ever expected to put away while still in school.

He wished he could credit hard work and savvy spending, but the truth was, even if he'd been the most experienced penny-pincher in the world, there would had been no way he'd have survived the winter without Jason—or, more specifically, Jason's brother.

Dick had insisted on getting involved in their arrangement, citing the Christmas break incident as just one of the many things that could go wrong if they continued unsupervised. He'd researched Tim's disease, and started bringing extra meals to school. Most days, he sat in on their feeding sessions, making another blood-drinking-makeout session impossible. Tim wasn't sure that was the worst thing in the world.

Jason bristled under the monitoring, but Tim kind of enjoyed having a de facto older brother. Dick was always happy to talk to him, and he was much better at answering questions than Jason. And, more than that, he was a friend.

"Grape? You shouldn't have." Jason grinned as Tim passed over the lollipop, unwrapping it with childish enthusiasm and sticking it in his mouth. "Mmm. That's the stuff. Money's still in there, baby?"

Jason thought it was funny that Tim obsessively checked his savings balance. Jason had clearly been living in a mansion for too long. Tim dug his elbow into the soft spot under Jason's ribs, grinning when the dhampir winced.

_Tim_ thought it was funny that Jason had packed on a couple extra pounds since they met. He'd never admit it aloud, but he liked seeing Jason's hard edges soften with excess, and knowing it was because of him.

He'd expected things to change drastically after Christmas, but instead they'd just been doing this—messing around, sharing their lives, eating. Teasing. Tim had cried on the anniversary of the crash, and Jason had taken him out of school for an unauthorized field trip to the couch, armed with ice cream and an unwavering shoulder to lean on. They'd gotten in trouble with both Dick and the school.

They'd fought twice, once bad enough that Dick took it upon himself to mediate, but Tim hadn't doubted they'd survive, and he'd been right. When the dust settled, all three of them had still been standing.

He and Jason crossed the street after the bank, heading toward the park in unspoken agreement. The warm weather had turned most of the snow into slush and mud, and Tim had been getting a lot of use out of Dad's old boots. He kicked some slush at Jason as they walked, and Jason attacked him with a purple-slobbered kiss that had him cringing and wiping the sticky sugar from his temple and hair.

It was hot—spring was never hot in Gotham—Tim stepped away from Jason to get a breath of non-grape-scented air—and then something slammed into him from behind.

Jason's howl followed him into unconsciousness.

* * *

This time, Tim didn't come around in a nurse's office that he mistook for a hospital—he really was in a hospital room.

_Not again_.

The cold, antiseptic smell took him back over a year; he was a time traveler in his own body, and he hated it. There was an IV in his arm. He couldn't feel the needle, but he could feel whatever sedative they were pumping into his veins.

When Jason bit him, it didn't feel like taking. It felt like the dhampir was handing back whatever Timness had faded over the course of the week, handing back the warmth and fullness Tim could never quite hold onto. The IV was the opposite—it was a theft of normality, leaving him hollow and strange in the name of killing pain.

Maybe the pain was just part of him. Maybe he _liked_ to feel it.

It had almost killed him, how doped up he'd been after the crash. The nurses—there had been three of them—had each explained in their own way that he couldn't _not_ have medication, not like this. They'd promised the dose would be lower every day, that he'd feel like himself before long. They didn't want him on anything stronger than Advil, but it would be inhumane otherwise.

He'd been too out of it to grieve, and then he'd been handed his father's ashes by a state worker and it was too late. _That_ was inhumane.

He blinked, forcing his brain to work through the fog. That had been over a year ago. It still hurt, but it wasn't going to be the reason he died. Not anymore.

He was in a private room, which he hadn't had last time, and although it was currently empty, there were signs several people had recently been around. The chair closest to his bed had Jason's leather jacket crumpled up in its seat, and another had a wool coat draped over its back. On his plastic bedside tray, someone had left a teddy bear and balloon with the words _I Love You Beary Much—_ that had Dick's fingerprints all over it.

Familiar enough with hospital stays to know what to do even while partly sedated, Tim jammed the call button on the side of the bed. He wanted someone to tell him what the hell had happened. Had he collapsed? Was it his stupid sickness?

If the thing that saved his life wound up killing him after all, Tim was going to lose it.

After an indeterminate time, a nurse poked her head in. Her blond curls jogged his memory: the bank teller. Walking with Jason.

Pain.

"Good morning," the nurse said, cheerful but brisk. "Would you like me to notify your family?"

Tim almost told her his family was dead. Then he caught sight of Jason's jacket, added two and two together, and nodded fervently.

"You must still feel pretty out of it. Don't worry about anything but getting a little more rest. The doctor will be by as soon as he's got a moment." She popped back out before he could ask what had happened, closing the door behind her.

He shifted, testing his body. Nothing seemed injured. Cautiously, feeling like he was in a dream, he elevated the headboard and adjusted his pillow to sit at his lower back. If the doctor wasn't checking him out at once, and the nurse was comfortable with the door closed, he mustn't be in terrible condition. He was just pulling his sheet aside to check that both legs were still there when the door opened again and Jason came in, a tall, dark-haired stranger on his heels.

Jason was at Tim's side in two strides, half-crushing him in a bear hug that tugged uncomfortably at the IV. Tim pressed his face to Jason's neck briefly, aware they had company.

"Were you—" He coughed, throat dry, and Jason pulled back.

"Waitaminute, here." He went to a small table a couple feet away, where a pitcher of water and stack of Dixie cups were waiting, and poured Tim a cup.

Tim accepted. He hadn't realized his mouth felt like a box of chalk until he'd tried to use it. He wasn't thirsty, exactly, but the cool water was refreshing. "I think I should just rent a room here."

Jason's laugh was stilted. "Maybe." He reclaimed the chair with his jacket in it, taking Tim's hand and stealing a glance at his companion.

The man stood by the second chair, his blue eyes grave. He was almost as burly as Jason, but carried himself with far more elegance. Tim didn't need to ask who he was—but he did wonder what the legendary clan leader was doing in his hospital room.

Tim swallowed. "It's nice to meet you, sir."

"Bruce is fine." Bruce's voice was gravel and shadow; Tim might have had his doubts about Jason's dhampirism in the beginning, but there was no denying this man was a vampire. Hell, Tim might have suspected it even if he hadn't known about Jason and the rest. "Did they tell you what happened?"

Tim shook his head.

Jason squeezed his hand. "Asshole was driving drunk. Swerved off the road and hit us. You—you took the brunt of it." His voice was strangled. Tim laced their fingers together, meeting Jason's eyes and shaking his head. _Don't start._

Jason wrinkled his nose, disagreement plain on his face, and Tim dug his thumbnail into the back of his hand, trying to silently stress how much it wasn't Jason's fault.

"It was an extremely close call." Bruce's gaze fixed on their hands before traveling to the television set up across from Tim's bed. It was switched off, which didn't stop him from giving it his full attention. "I took the liberty of telling the hospital I am your emergency contact."

"Oh." Tim didn't know what to say to that.

"I was here for Jason, regardless." Bruce slipped his hands in the pockets of his dress pants, his posture relaxed. Tim still got the sense he wasn't comfortable here, although his instincts were a little fuzzy at the moment.

"So I'm okay?" Tim was more asking Jason than Bruce, but the dhampir just pressed his forehead to the back of Tim's hand.

"The doctor will be in to discuss your options," Bruce said evasively.

Tim would have been shaken, but the part of his brain that reacted to things appeared to be offline. "What does that mean?"

Bruce transferred his gaze from the inactive set to the bed. "Do you really want to hear it from a stranger?"

"Doctors are strangers, too." Tim met his eyes squarely. He didn't want to look like a coward in front of the vampire. He wanted to look like someone who'd kick Bruce's ass for not treating Jason right—although he doubted that would possible even if he wasn't bedridden.

"The impact of the crash broke one of your ribs and bruised your spine. Nothing too concerning. However, while they were taking the necessary scans—"

Tim had gone through this before. It was how they'd found out he had PV in the first place.

"—they discovered a problem with your blood. It seems some of your bone marrow has been corrupted with scar tissue. The tentative prognosis is that you will gradually begin to produce less and less blood, until you're forced into hospice care." Bruce's tone was dispassionate, and yet Tim felt—and again, maybe it was the medication—that the vampire was deeply grieved.

He understood the guilty look on Jason's face, now. Of course the dhampir would assume it was his fault. His feeding had forced Tim's body to replace blood at a higher rate, at least to his incomplete understanding. Tim threaded his hand through Jason's hair, feeling their roles reverse as he kissed Jason's temple reassuringly.

And then it hit him. Bruce had just told him he was dying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if I have one regret it's Tim's dramatic fainting spells. and maybe that there wasn't more Dick Grayson. and also I don't think I explained the dhampir thing too well. okay, I guess I have a lot of regrets. Thank you guys for reading anyway!! Last chapter will be up two weeks from today. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLD UP:  
> I'm going to change the tags as soon as I've posted this because it honestly slipped my mind, and I'm putting this note in the beginning to be extra cautious--this chapter contains implied/suppressed child abuse. Almost nothing is described (because, you know, this is such a wholesome and fluffy story about vampirism and fatal diseases -_-), but if this is a sensitive topic for you, be warned, and I'm really sorry I forgot to tag this before.  
> THANKS FOR READING :)

The doctor explained, essentially, what Bruce had said, but with more words and a little more context. The threat wasn't immediate, meaning Tim had a little over a year before he would notice any signs of deterioration, provided he kept his blood inside his body, where it belonged. That took feeding off the table.

It was a very rare condition with a nasty list of symptoms. The doctor already had two prescriptions for him, one to prevent inflammation and one to help with the inevitable anemia. He recommended removing Tim's spleen. He mentioned chemotherapy. He stressed that no diagnosis was perfect, that Tim could live ten months or ten years—it was important to stay positive.

"With regular blood transfusions, you could live a long and happy life," he added, and Tim nearly laughed at the irony. He'd gone from having too many red blood cells to too few; what were the odds?

He was weaned off the painkillers pretty quickly, given the requisite spiel about over-the-counter meds and addiction, and released into Bruce's custody after two days.

"This feels strange," he muttered, climbing from an unneeded wheelchair into the back of Bruce's black Bentley.

"Hey, I wanted to pick you up on the bike." Jason abandoned the wheelchair under the Outpatient awning and followed him into the backseat. "For some reason, everyone thought that was a bad idea."

"You'll be returning to the Manor," Bruce said, from the driver's seat, as if it wasn't a question. Tim frowned.

Jason slid his arm around Tim's shoulders. "Bruce. The Manor's got seven vampires, two dhampirs, a human, and a dog. _And_ Damian's currently obsessed with practicing kendo."

"The Manor is also large enough to house a small circus."

"It _does_ house a small circus. That's the fucking point." Jason sounded like he was talking through crushed glass. "If Tim wants to go home, let him."

"Unacceptable." Bruce met Jason's eyes in the rearview mirror, apparently above turning to look at his ersatz son. "Dick promised me you would take responsibility for this mess."

"And I am." Jason's arm tightened around Tim. "By insisting you take him home, where he can relax, rather than that fucking mausoleum."

"I seem to remember that mausoleum being the only home you have." While Jason was winding up, Bruce remained frigidly calm. "Unless you think you can strike out on your own with that child."

"Okay, okay." Tim shrugged Jason's arm away and leaned forward. His palms were sweating, but this had to end at some point, and if the two _actual_ children in the car were going to make the sick man do the talking, so be it. "Nobody's leaving anywhere, although I wouldn't blame Jason for wanting his independence, all things considering."

Jason inexplicably winced.

"That being said, as the dying man in this equation, I want to go home. It's where I lived with my father. No offense. I appreciate your hospitality," the words were wooden in Tim's mouth, false even to his own ears, "but I want to be where I'm most comfortable."

Bruce turned to look at him. Judging from his expression, he didn't like anything Tim had just said—and, surprisingly, Tim wasn't as shaken as he might have been. Saying it aloud had felt good.

After a long, inscrutable moment, Bruce asked, "All things considering?"

"Don't—" Jason began, but Tim interrupted him.

"As if you don't know. The feeding. Jason being so overwhelmed that he—"

" _Tim_." It was Jason's turn to cut him off, and Tim turned in his seat, surprised.

Bruce's voice was so quiet, and so grieved, Tim knew he'd made a mistake. "What did he do this time?"

_This time?_

Jason glared at Tim, but it wasn't like he could backpedal now. "He jumped off a roof. That's how we met, actually. Well . . . kind of. It's how I found out about the whole dhampir thing." Oh, no. That made it sound like Jason had compromised the family secret. "I mean, nobody else was looking. Probably I wouldn't have been either, except—well, it doesn't matter. He was just really hungry and you know Jason, he doesn't think things through—"

A horn honked behind them, and Tim realized they were still lingering in the pick-up lane. Bruce engaged the engine, his silence nerve-wracking.

"Bruce," Jason finally ventured, sounding much younger than he ever had.

"We'll talk about this at the house," Bruce said, and then added, "Tim's house."

"I didn't know it was a secret." Tim was sitting on his bed, letting Jason pick out what he was going to wear. It wasn't so much that he couldn't do it himself as that he wanted the excuse to be alone with his boyfriend. Jason certainly hadn't argued.

Bruce was downstairs, doing whatever it was distant, unreadable vampire dads did when left alone in their son's boyfriend's kitchen. Tim hoped it involved making something hot to drink.

"It's not a secret." Jason yanked out a t-shirt. "I just didn't want to tell him."

"That makes it a secret. And you could have told _me_ that. All this time I thought Bruce just didn't care, not that you hadn't told him it was too much for you to—"

"I was handling it!" Jason slammed the dresser drawer shut. "And I didn't need you opening your mouth."

"You said you asked him about Dick becoming a dhampir. I assumed the subject came up in the context of you not being able to feed _seven fucking vampires_. And I don't like that shirt. It's too big." Tim jerked his chin at the red monstrosity, which he'd gotten in junior varsity baseball and never grown into. He'd also given up on baseball, despite being good at it. The crash had changed a lot, and he hated the reminder.

"You don't understand." Jason yanked the drawer back open, chucked in the shirt, and took out another. "Better?"

"Better. And I do so understand. I know you better than anyone."

"But you don't know _Bruce_." Jason was gentler shutting the drawer a second time. "He doesn't get angry, he gets _disappointed_ , and trust me, it's the worst feeling in the world."

"You didn't tell him you were starving because you didn't want to let him down?" Tim threw his hands in the air. "I thought you hated him."

"It's complicated, okay?" Jason rifled through Tim's second drawer and took out a pair of black skinny jeans that may or may not have made an appearance—and subsequent disappearance—on several of their date nights. His gaze softened. "And my favorite thing about you is that you aren't complicated."

"You're talking to a guy with two rare diseases and a past straight out of a soap opera."

"Who acts like it's totally normal to let his boyfriend drink his blood." Jason tossed the clothes to Tim. His tone was far from conciliatory, but at least he was trying when he added, "I should have explained."

"You think?" Tim traded the t-shirt he was wearing for the one Jason picked out, cringing as he stretched the muscles directly under the purple-and-green bruise on his back and side. He could only see it clearly if he twisted around in a way that made it hurt even more, so he hadn't taken a close look. Jason had assured him it was heinous. "So . . . what happens now?"

Jason shrugged, keeping a careful eye on him as he slid off his rank jeans and shimmied into the fresh ones, still sitting on the bed. Better safe than sorry. "He gets rid of me?"

"Shut up."

"Well, what else is he supposed to do?" Jason leaned on the closed door. "I'm only good for one thing, Tim, and if I can't do that—"

He cut himself off, crossing an arm over his chest and clamping the other over his mouth. His thick brows knotted together over his troubled eyes, and Tim caught a glimpse of something he'd failed to see before now. Jason was right; he didn't understand. Or he hadn't.

"You're scared." Why hadn't he realized it? He'd been so arrogant, assuming there was nothing else to Jason but blood and anger and isolation. "You're—the reason you hate them—it's because you don't trust them."

Jason glowered at him, and Tim was finally able to put his finger on what had been bothering him all these months. It seemed like the two realities—the one where Jason's family hovered and left huge amounts of food and called him to make sure he was okay, and the one where seven sadistic vampires overfed and bullied him to the point where he wanted to make it _end—_ couldn't co-exist.

But they could if Jason was wrong.

"He's not going to throw you away," Tim said, standing. "And you know what? Even if he does, you have me. You can always come live here." He crossed to Jason, pulling the dhampir's arms out of the way and hugging him tightly. "So it's okay."

Jason remained stiff for a moment, maybe reluctant to cede the point.

"I've got you," Tim added, rubbing Jason's back. "No matter what."

"Not if you die." Jason's voice was barely audible as he buried his head in the curve of Tim's neck. The words were immutable; rather than argue, Tim just held on for as long as Jason needed.

Bruce had, in fact, made tea. He sat at Tim's kitchen table with three steaming mugs. He was even larger and darker and more imposing in the small, sunny space, his pin-striped suit more expensive than anything else in the room.

Tim and Jason pulled out their chairs as one, and Tim immediately claimed one of the mugs. Jason left his untouched. It felt like they were about to get a lecture, but one of—no, the only—benefit of being a mostly-grown orphan was that Tim no longer felt beholden to any authority figure. Even one that wore Armani and probably drained the blood of virgins in his free time.

"You two," Bruce began, and then shook his head, pushing a lock of wavy hair off his forehead. The small gesture transformed him from Lord of the Night to Overworked Single Father, and Tim stole a glance at Jason, wondering if his boyfriend saw it, too.

Judging from Jason's expression, no.

"Jason." Bruce closed his fingers around the handle of his mug, but made no move to drink. "Honestly . . . your brother suggested I ask you directly, but I'm not sure you'll tell me the truth even if this is the case."

Tim put his hand on Jason's thigh. The dhampir's muscles were tense under Tim's palm, but at least Jason knew he was here.

"I knew you talked with Dick about me." Jason's voice was rough, and he stared into his mug of tea as if it held all the answers. "He doesn't know jack shit, in case you were wondering."

"Dick—Richard notices more than you think." Bruce was sharp for a moment, and then he seemed to catch himself. "I'm not going to argue, your brother has been a far more cooperative child. And I understand that might have made you feel . . . alienated . . . in your own home—"

"No, being everyone's midnight snack is what did it," Jason snapped. Directly contrasting his words, his thigh relaxed under Tim's hand. Maybe it was the relief of finally letting it out. "Playing second fiddle to the blood-born brat, being bled raw in my own kitchen, and then getting _summoned_ to your office like I'm nothing more than a blood whore!"

Bruce inhaled sharply, drawing back as if Jason had lashed him. For a tense moment, Tim was certain the vampire was going to stalk out—and he had no idea why.

But then Bruce set both his hands on the table, palms flat, and calmed his expression. "I understand why you would think that way. But I'm not my ancestors. They needlessly created dhampirs, never bothered to take responsibility for their sins, and that's the last thing I want. And yet . . ." He sighed. "My choices have put the burden of the clan on your shoulders."

Tim squeezed Jason's thigh.

Jason was still staring at his tea. "I don't want a fucking apology."

"I wasn't apologizing." Bruce arched an eyebrow. "I have many skills, Jason, but mind reading is not one of them. You should have told me it was too much."

Jason didn't say anything.

Bruce sighed. "Well. You aren't the only son that Dick and I discuss. He mentioned Damian's been rather . . . overenthusiastic . . . about feeding. Rest assured, I will have a word with him."

"He's growing." Jason swallowed, then looked at Bruce. "It's not the brat's fault. He's just hungry, and I . . . I know how he feels. I get that you don't wanna be responsible for a thousand dhampirs, or whatever, but Jesus, man. Even if you just let Alfred take my place for a couple days, it wouldn't be that—"

"Alfred isn't an option." Bruce cut him off so sharply, Tim flinched. The vampire shot him an apologetic look, and softened his tone. "Nevertheless, I hear you. Jason . . ." He looked uncomfortable. "I'm very sorry. I had no idea making you a dhampir would cause so much unhappiness."

"Really? Which part of being a lifelong buffet did you think I'd object to?" Jason spread his hands. "Alfred's out of the picture, fine, but what about dear ole' Dickie? I'd think you'd leap at the chance to be together with him forever." He bared his teeth; not as a threat, but an insult.

"Never." Bruce didn't miss a beat.

"Here we go again. What's good for me isn't good enough for precious—"

"You were dying, Jason." Bruce slammed his hands on the table, rattling the mugs. Tea sloshed damn near everywhere, but Tim didn't dare get a rag. Bruce's eyes burned with the same blue fire as Jason's, when he was angry, and it struck Tim that they were extremely similar despite being unrelated. "Do you even remember, or have you forced yourself to forget?"

Jason pushed his chair back from the table. "I don't have to listen to this."

"Your mother was addicted to heroin."

"Shut up."

"Of course I treat you differently from Dick, you _are_ different from him—" Bruce was intense, but not angry. The longer Tim listened, the more he was aware of the difference.

"Stop it."

"She sold you to those men I rescued you from—"

"No, I was on the street. I could take care of myself—"

"—and by the time I'd found you, it was too late. Your body was broken beyond repair." Bruce reached across the table, over Tim, to grasp Jason's chin, forcing him to make eye contact. "You'd been with those men for four years, Jason. You were wasted away, almost beyond recognition. But I knew it was you. My godchild."

And Tim thought _he'd_ had a soap opera past. He pushed his chair back, feeling awkward caught between the two men. Jason was breathing shallowly, hands grasping the table for support, pupils dilated in—what? Panic? Trauma? Tim couldn't tell. He tentatively put his hand on Jason's shoulder, unclear as to which of them was shaking harder.

"This isn't about Dick. You're my family, Jason, and making you a dhampir was the only way I could fix what had been done." Bruce let his hand drop, and Jason turned to Tim, his expression wild.

"I wanna get out of here."

Tim caught him by the shoulders. "Wait. It's okay."

Jason met his eyes. The same desperation that had driven him to leap off the school roof was back, more intense than Tim had ever seen, but Tim understood the feeling better now. Jason was afraid, looking for a way to escape—but his fear was directed inward. There was no way for him to escape it now that Bruce had thrown the truth in his face.

In his own way, Tim was sure the vampire had been trying to protect his son. He wrapped his arms around Jason, wishing to hell he was big enough to make Jason feel sheltered in his embrace. All he could do was keep repeating that it was okay, and hope that the dhampir believed him. He was painfully aware of Bruce watching them both.

"My mother didn't . . . she didn't leave me on purpose." Jason's voice was meant for Tim alone. "She went away. Or she died. But she didn't _mean_ to—she loved me."

Jesus. Tim was so in over his head. He peered over Jason's hunched shoulder, trying to signal Bruce with his eyes. _A little parental reassurance, here._

Bruce looked perplexed. Tim had to resort to several furtive hand gestures before the vampire got the message.

He glided over to them, gingerly patting Jason on the back. Neither of them expected Jason to whirl on a dime and throw his arms around Bruce's neck—out of character was the subtle way to put it. Bruce was stiff as he hugged the dhampir back, but at least he tried. And now Tim was the one hovering like an outsider, wondering if he had any place in this discussion.

"I—I thought I was doing the right thing. It wasn't meant to be a punishment." Bruce glanced at Tim, borrowing his words. "It's okay."

Tim gave him a tentative smile. "Yeah." He touched Jason's back, just lightly enough to remind him he wasn't alone. "Everything is going to be okay."

Jason was still for a long moment. Then he stepped away from both of them, wiping the conflict from his face with a simple eye roll. "Okay, okay, that is _officially_ enough hugging. It's getting weird."

" _You're_ weird," Tim said.

Jason pointed at him. "Watch it, shortstop, or I'll tell Bruce to make you a dhampir, next."

"Actually," Bruce said thoughtfully, "that's not a bad idea."

* * *

"I don't care if it's a sad goodbye or a bad goodbye," Jason said, breaking the pre-dawn silence first, "but when I leave a place, I like to know I'm leaving it. If you don't, you feel even worse."

Tim squinted sideways at him. " _Catcher in the Rye_?"

"Had to apply to our lives at some point." Jason was leaning by the kitchen sink, looking out the curtain-less window at the same back alley Tim had looked out into his entire life. "You sure about this, kiddo? Like, a hundred-percent sure? No backsies."

Tim pushed up the sleeve of his sweatshirt, which—even before sunrise—it was really too warm for. He held out his forearm, marked with Bruce's bite. Tim didn't like to make comparisons, but the vampire's teeth were a lot bigger than Jason's. Hurt a lot more, too. "Already too late, right?"

"But you can still be a dhampir in this house." Jason made a vague, circular gesture. "You can be a dhampir anywhere you want. You don't _have_ to move into the Manor."

"I know." Tim looked around, no longer trying to avoid the hollow, pained feeling of leaving his childhood home behind. "You should have seen the family it got sold to, though. They're nice. Two kids, a dog. Looking for a fresh start in a new city."

"Shouldn't have come to Gotham, then."

Tim shoved him. Jason elbowed him back. Tim had to say, being a dhampir didn't feel any different from being human—until Jason tried to manhandle him. He grinned as Jason tried, ineffectively, to get him to budge.

"I could get used to this."

"You'd better." Jason gave up, settling for mussing his hair. "Because unless Bruce gets himself brutally murdered in the immediate future, this is what forever looks like."

"How terrible," Tim teased, and kissed him. He knew he should have been sad to leave the house behind, and he was, but holding onto it wouldn't bring Dad back to life. It was easier to think about the crash, these days; time dulling the wound the way it was rumored to, though Tim had always assumed that was impossible.

But so many things he'd thought were impossible—college, normal life, putting one foot in front of the other, _vampires—_ were coming to life in front of his eyes, so why not closure?

"What do you think?" he asked, arms around Jason's neck. "Should we move this to a different kitchen, make your family supremely uncomfortable about the new arrangement?"

"How petty." Jason's grin was fanged, grazing Tim's lower lip and drawing blood. "I think I'm in love."

"Good thing. Seeing as _this is what forever looks like_."

Jason growled, though it quickly turned into a laugh.

Tim left his house on a Wednesday, a year and three months after the car crash that should have claimed his life and—fortunately for both him and Jason—didn't. He closed the door on the hunger and the empty rooms, and rode into the sunrise on the back of his boyfriend's motorcycle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you scrutinize Bruce's actions too closely, you really start to realize he's either a shitty person/vamp or just really, really bad at making common sense decisions. Dick's pretty useless, and Tim has obviously just thrown himself into a cult to escape his crushing guilt. And let's not start on Jason's textbook daddy issues. I'm really grateful if you read through this anyway. :)


End file.
